


Running On Empty

by wholeheartedly



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I apologize in advance, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, thats literally it, victor deals with depression stuff, what are tags? idk her (or how they work)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 04:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11350230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeheartedly/pseuds/wholeheartedly
Summary: Victor deals with the elephant in the room by denying its existence, his former values and perceptions crumbling around him.





	Running On Empty

It begins with a scratch: a tiny gash on the side of your knee that results from a particularly graceless slip out of a triple axel. It bleeds little and scabs over within the hour, seemingly insignificant. People stop out of courtesy and check if you’re okay, though you assure them that it’s nothing. Impeccable posture, a confident gait, a steady tone of voice: these are the fundamentals of the front you’ve mastered in conjunction with your skating. They’re compelling enough to fool an outsider (and maybe even yourself).

Still, you haven't missed that jump  _ once _ in the past two years.

Yakov grunts at you to be careful, as if it’s just an ordinary mistake. He knows it isn’t. It’s not normal for him to ignore it — the kind of thing that could potentially have consequences. Practice continues anyway, and you push away the doubts that have already begun to seep into your consciousness.

Unknown to you, however, the seed has already been planted.

It shows in the otherwise negligible minor injuries you receive from botching techniques you've mastered ages ago. Your footwork and step sequences go sloppy; various attempts at quads devolve into doubles and triples. People shoot you glances of curiosity and sympathy; some ask whether you’ve been eating and sleeping properly, or whether there's something on your mind. It stirs feelings of discomfort somewhere within the part of you that can still  _ feel _ things, but they’re too repressed to be identified, and you’ve grown accustomed to dismissing everything with a repeated  _ I’m fine _ , such that you’re not even sure if it’s true anymore.

So it’s too late when a quadruple toe-loop spirals out of control and you fall,  _ hard. _ Most of what happens that day is a blur. You remember certain things: swollen, reddened flesh paired with searing pain, Yakov’s shouting, and the flurry of your rink mates frantically leaving the ice. Among them is the wave of sheer horror that washes over you at the realization that _ you can’t get up on your own. _

“Fortunately, it’s just a sprain,” the doctor explains. 

You blink. It’s four dissociation-and-panic filled hours later, and you’ve made it to the ER during that time without exactly knowing how.

The doctor continues. “Since you’re an athlete, you’ll probably want to take a week off to recover fully.”

Protest bubbles up at the base of your throat, the kind you can’t allow yourself to give into. You nod a little more stiffly than usual, sport a tighter-lipped smile, and offer the most cordial  _ thank you _ you can muster.

It’s evening when you make your way home. You avert your eyes from the faceless people on the streets, ease only enough weight off your injury as not to arouse suspicion, thumb over the worn grooves of your apartment key, your mind anywhere but the present.

Makkachin greets you heartily at the door when you finally return to your apartment. The sloppy kisses feel wetter than usual, but the laughter they bring is short-lived and it eventually dies down to a harder, emptier place than before.

At some point, you slink into bed, still resisting the urge to scream, to cry, even in isolation. You claim the space between your mattress and comforter. You stay there.

* * *

 

Christophe phones you over the weekend.

What strikes you isn't the grain of his voice that's filtered over the line, nor the way his lofty Swiss accent forms over the syllables in his greeting — it's the realization that this is the first time you've had small talk with anyone else for over a month.  You suppose that's how you find yourself recounting everything that's happened (over the past... week? month?) in spite of your usual reticence, and even though  _ everything _ may well be an overstatement, it's enough.

"Strange,  _ mon ami _ . I don't think I've ever experienced such a feeling before," Chris muses, followed by a brief pause. "Perhaps you should take another vacation? My mother's family has this lovely little house in the countryside, and my grandfather's cooking is divine."

It's a generous offer, although you doubt you'd be able to tolerate any more than twenty-four hours within ten feet of Chris, his boyfriend, and their inability to contain the PDA — that is, at least not while you're feeling like this. You graciously decline the offer, relieved that he doesn't mention  _ that _ which you're truly afraid is the underlying problem.

At five o’clock in the morning, you stumble out of bed the way you’ve trained yourself to do, the way your body knows how — only to realize that you can’t go for an early morning run with your injury. For the first time in ages, you find yourself rolling back into bed and nodding off to sleep.

It is half past ten in the evening when you wake up again.

The sight of Makkachin snoozing at the foot of the bed sends you into a state of alarm, until you that the housekeeper must have let her out and fed her earlier. Breathing a sigh of relief, you sink back into the pillow and stare at the ceiling.

_ This isn’t like you. _

It’s strange, because after this much sleep you shouldn’t be tired at all, and yet you’re absolutely  _ exhausted.  _ You wonder how long you could stay without eating or moving, until the strength in your limbs deteriorates completely and you’re ruined forever.

You’re asleep before you figure it out.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite the advice of (just about) everyone you know, you return to Yakov’s rink to resume training after three days.

Every skater halts their respective activities to look at you standing at the threshold between the ice and dry ground. It’s quiet,  _ unbearably  _ quiet, and far quieter than a rink containing this many people should ever be.

You wave at no one in particular, smiling. “Hi, everyone. I’m back.”

A dull, brief echo follows your words, resonating within the space. The sound is hollow, drowned out by the stillness that ensues.

Slowly, Yakov makes his way toward you from the other side of the rink. Over the years, you’ve learned what to anticipate from your coach in the midst of disappointment and brash stupidity. You expect to be chided and disciplined. You expect his familiar stern expression, dominated by a wide mouth that turns down at the corners.

He draws closer, his features softer than usual. You feel a firm grasp upon your shoulder, an attempt at reassurance.

_ “Vitya,” _ he says, and it’s enough to break your heart — but not your composure.

“I’m fine, Yakov,” you lie easily,  _ too easily, _ and there’s a part of you wants it to falter, to crumble, but then again you’re too far gone to stop yourself. “Seriously, it’s not even the worst of what I’ve had-”

“Vitya, go home.”

You fall silent. You can’t look him in the eyes.

He continues. “I realize that nationals are the next closest event to think about, but you needn’t worry about them.” He eases his grip and lets his arm fall to his side. “Your mental health takes priority.”

For the first time, you’re confronted with the possibility from a source outside yourself. Yakov  _ knows _ , you realize with dismay, that there’s more to Victor Nikiforov than meets the eye and none of it is good: not for your skating, nor your image, and all of it hurts. A smile stretches at your cheeks as a defense mechanism, and you laugh in earnest. “What are you talking about?” you say, despite knowing  _ exactly _ what he means.

Yakov pulls a scrap of paper from his back pocket and hands it to you. There’s a telephone number scrawled on it, and you think about how this must have been premeditated, how it was already prepared before you even arrived at the rink that morning. It  _ hurts, _ it makes you feel like a fool for ever trying to hide.

_ I can’t, _ you try to say, but the hinges of your jaw are fixed as if rusted from years of disuse, and you’re afraid to force it should your voice creak or catch from the effort.

Yakov doesn’t say anything either, but you can read his eyes well enough. You know he means well; you know the physician he’s recommending is probably one of the best in the city, and he’d probably explain how it helped him through his situation with Lilia if only his pride would allow it.

He doesn’t know this isn’t something you can shed off like yesterday’s skin  _ because it’s a part of you. _

“All right,” you say finally (another lie), and take the paper from him. Outside, you crumble it up and stuff it into your jacket pocket, where it remains for the next six months, untouched, before it ends up in the trash.

 

* * *

 

Only during performances are you ever really sure of anything about yourself.

It’s a role of sorts, not unlike the one you display for the public, but the difference lies in  _ control. _ News outlets and the commercialism shape the façade you exhibit for interviews and press conferences, in front of fans and benefactors, and even throughout your everyday life. 

On the ice, the role you play is one you’ve written for yourself. It’s the only place you can fearlessly and uninhibitedly pour out your very soul, the solitary vessel for your emotions. The stimuli of the audience and the expanse that contains them fade into the background, all white noise and distant memories. The blades of your skates carve spirals upon the frigid surface: a testament to your passage. 

Victory manifests itself in the gold strung around your neck and the elevated stage of the podium. The introductory chords of the Russian national anthem play overhead, mingled with the shuffling and the applause and the voices from all across the stadium, and you want so badly to commit every second, every sensation to memory, and encapsulate the experience the way multimedia documentation just  _ can’t. _

Yet one question always lingers when you come down from the high:  _ what comes next? _

 

* * *

 

_ Hope  _ takes time but comes around — a year and a half, to be exact — in the form you’d least expected of it.

_ Hope  _ is twenty-three and drunk off his ass, grinding shamelessly in front of a crowd with his arms slung around your shoulders. There is fire in his cheeks and stars in his eyes, and for the first time in years you feel something surge inside you, something  _ real. _

March brings certainty and confirmation in a viral video, and you can give a name to fire ignited in your soul —  _ inspiration. _

And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough for your heart to start all over again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> a literal angel aka [stanzas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stanzas/pseuds/stanzas) beta'd this trash and helped me make it slightly less terrible,,,,i owe them my Life
> 
> fyi i'm on [tumblr](http://gayforov.tumblr.com)
> 
> also don't worry about our baby he's fine now that he has yuuri..... there is a God hsdjfkkdsfflkf


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